


Crossing Cities

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Assistant Dean, Blind Castiel, Blind Character, Co-workers, First Dates, Flirty Castiel, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Nervous Dean, Single Parent Dean, Some Plot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weather Forecaster Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From what little Cas eavesdrops on in the conference room, Dean’s the kind of guy you’d see plastered on an ad for a fitness plan. Tall, Adonis, eyes like the leaves on a summertime tree with a bronze and lightly smattered trunk. If Cas could see, he’d probably be hypnotized by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Cities

“We’ve got some mild wind passing through Bloomington—”

“Cas,” his producer, Charlie, cuts through like a packaging knife, “that’s Peoria.”

Cas’s finger moves to the right, smile never faltering: “Bloomington: Passing through since 1861.”

He can hear the crew hack up a tonsil laughing so hard, but he doesn’t lose his composure. Cas has been a meteorologist since he found a grey hair sandwiched between his pillow and his mattress. The network calls him the Bill Nye of Weather.

“Moving into the weekly forecast,” Cas narrates, stepping aside, “Prepare for high humidity, 72, 75, and 80, Tuesday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday come in only partly cloudy with slightly higher winds and lower humidity in the fifties. And like the demographic Keanu Reeves’ claims to belong to, we know the truth, Pontiac: He’s just one good-looking vampire _._ Now back to Benny in the world of culinary.”

The director calls cut and the cameras spin, allowing Cas to step out of frame completely. He loosens his tie— _royal_ _blue,_ Charlie advised, because they balance his eyes.

“Great stuff as usual, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t have to hear him twice to know who it is. His voice is similar to Cas’s: not grating enough for nails to slide down a chalkboard, but deep enough for his spine to chase goosebumps. “Hello, Dean,” he greets genially. “How’s Sam?”

“Ugh, pain in my ass as usual.”

Cas hums in appreciation, partly distracted by the scuff of his loafers. “And Ben?”

“Takes after his uncle.”

Cas laughs. Dean’s soft-spoken compared to most of the other crew, but he’s humored Cas on many occasion in his short few months on set. Once, he brought Cas a skinny caramel macchiato when Cas initially wanted a regular and Dean replied, “ _Weight Watchers_ is always watching you, Cas.”

From what little Cas eavesdrops on in the conference room, Dean’s the kind of guy you’d see plastered on an ad for a fitness plan. Tall, Adonis, eyes like the leaves on a summertime tree with a bronze and lightly smattered trunk. If Cas could see, he’d probably be hypnotized by him.

“—I mean, if you want. Or breakfast or lunch or that stupid thing people call brunch.”

Cas backpedals out of his thoughts. “Wait, did you just ask me out on a date?”

“No,” Dean replies all-too soon for his liking. “I mean, _yes,_ if you want, but you don’t have to.”

A light flickers on Cas’s cheeks, and before a smile can cut through, says, “Lead the way.” Then, for good measure, adds: “Literally, please. I can’t see a damn thing.”

***

If it weren’t for the marshmallow smoke puffing out the tongue of the bistro like a gingerbread chimney, Elizabeth’s Eatery would go unnoticed by anyone with a notorious sweet tooth.

Just a few blocks south of the studio, the quant house-turned-business is worthy of a Grimm fairytale. The interior is lined with brick archways and stringy chandeliers that probably haven’t seen the actual light of day since Uther Pendragon fell. The tables are even draped in red velvet worthy of a superhero cape.

Dean’s usual consists of gumbo and a slice of pecan pie to go. He loves Liz, but there’s only so much paranormal vibe he can take.

He tells Cas as much sitting in the booth closest to the window. Cas laughs—a rich, rumbling sound that can shake the Grand Canyon, “Don’t worry, if anything stands between you and your gumbo, I’ll go Daredevil on its ass.”

Then his strong arm reaches across the table, feeling out for Dean’s hand. His fingers merely tease Dean’s knuckles until Dean makes the conscious effort to take his whole hand. He’s warm, like a fresh beignet sprinkled with extra sugar to match the curve of his cushioned pink lips, and suddenly, as Liz rounds the corner to take their respective orders, everything else seems unappetizing.

“What can I get for you handsum’ fellas?” Liz asks, wetting her inked knife before setting it to her pad.

“I’ll have my usual,” Dean replies. He gives the hand still cocooned in Cas’s a squeeze. Cas’s eyes expand like two ripe blueberries, counteracting the red everywhere else. “Save an extra slice of pecan for the gentleman.”

The thing that fleetingly crosses Liz’s face is unmistakably a smirk before she turns to Cas, wavy brown hair flouncing on her bosom, “And you, sweetie?”

“How’re your burgers?”

“Depends,” Liz replies, full-on grinning now, “How big’s your pallet?”

“Oh, very big.” Cas may be blind, but he looks right into Dean’s soul as he says that. “Or so I’ve been told.”

And even _more_ suddenly, Dean’s palm is the source of Pontiac’s humidity and he’s looking _anywhere_ but those lips because there’s an aquarium of inappropriate thoughts swimming in his head. Luckily, Cas removes his hand in favor of his equally sweaty Arnold Palmer.

Dean’s Coke is gone in a matter of seconds.

***

“Cas, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Dean, you know what cup size I am,” Cas says, chuckling as lightning crashes like the outro to a bad joke. He wraps his coat tighter around himself. “I think we’re ten states past personal.”

“Right,” Dean laughs wryly, “sorry, it’s just, uhm, what’s it like?”

“Being blind?”

“Being content.” Something broad and warm wraps around his shoulders. Cas feels his face heat up again when he feels the furry sleeves on Dean’s coat.

“You think I’m content?"

“Well, I mean, yeah,” Dean supplies inelegantly, “You’re always smiling and making other people smile, and you kinda have the best job in the world—”

Cas snorts, “Anyone can be a weatherman. You know you can’t _actually_ predict the weather, right?”

“I figured as much when we got pelted with snow last month on a ‘bright and sunny day’.”

“Yeah, I mainly just rehearse what’s on the teleprompt.”

“Even still,” Dean presses on, “anyone can rattle words off a screen, but it takes someone special to bring laughter into people’s lives when they least expect it.”

Cas walks a little slower, angling his head toward the ground. “I wanted to be a comedian.” He feels a gummy smile lift his nose as he says this and can’t help chuckle, “I couldn’t muster the courage to stand in front of a studio audience, though. Getting that instant feedback, it’s terrifying. I’d rather crack a terrible joke once than cringe over it the rest of my life.”

“You’re never cringe-worthy, Cas,” Dean assures as his footsteps fade out. Naturally, Cas thinks Dean abandoned him because all he hears is the zoom of overzealous cars and the obnoxious _caw_ of birds in overhead trees until he says, “If you could see yourself.”

Like sand to shore, Cas’s hand finds Dean’s again, but before either of them can bask in the other’s warmth, lightning strikes with a mighty hand and something cold and sharp socks him on the head.

“Oh no, no, _no_ —” Dean nearly tugs Cas’s hand out of its socket pulling him the other way.

Before long, the clobber of their feet takes them someplace warmer and quieter. Like two insecure teens at a Wiz Khalifa concert, they relearn the concept of breathing. Dean’s the one that fails first. His laughter is too beautiful a sound to capture with words or a video camera, so instead Cas uses his lips.

Of course, Bloomington is miles from Peoria and he catches his chin instead, but it’s not long until Dean’s hands are guiding his face in the right direction. His lips are soft, like the brioche bun he savored to the last bite and his tongue tastes like sausage jambalaya and Cas feels his pallet stretch a country mile wide.

 

 

Weather is unpredictable.

 


End file.
